


Secrets in the Dark

by idreamofdraco



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, Complete, F/M, Hand Jobs, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, One Shot, POV Hermione Granger, Self-Doubt, Smut, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 01:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10401144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idreamofdraco/pseuds/idreamofdraco
Summary: Comfort is hard to come by when you're an outlaw and on the run, but after a stint wearing the locket Horcrux, Hermione needs it more than usual. That's where Ron comes in. [One-shot. Takes place during Deathly Hallows.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is my first time writing a canon pairing as a main pairing?? This was written VERY quickly and is sure to have issues, but I hope you enjoy it! Reviews appreciated!

Ron's deep breathing and the fitful sounds of Harry's slumber filled the tent with anxious white noise. Hermione lay in her bunk, immobilized by the weight of the Horcrux pressing down like a brick on her chest. Not a brick—an anvil. An elephant. Maybe a submarine. 

Her own breathing came out halted, as if she kept forgetting to fill her lungs with air and then expel it. As if her body had forgotten it was supposed to automatically repeat the process. But she had more important things to worry about than the malfunctioning of her respiratory system. The safety of the wizarding world rested in Harry's hands, and since she and Ron had thrown their lots in with his, that meant she, too, was responsible for saving the world.

Three of the six Horcruxes had been found and two of them destroyed. The third nestled between Hermione's breasts, an odious burden until a means to destroy it could be discovered. Their mission seemed impossibly large for three teenagers, and Hermione loathed failure. Feared it.

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, her fingers coming up to stroke the locket even though touching it sent a wave of revulsion through her. It whispered a secret to her, and her insatiable thirst for knowledge refused to ignore freely given information.

_Horrid girl... Talentless, friendless, only tolerated for your brain... You will never fully fit into this world... Your efforts are meaningless..._

Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes, staining her eyelashes. Her heart ached at the truth she had spent years trying not to acknowledge. Harry and Ron had always stood up for her; they’d always encouraged her when she began to doubt herself, but the derision of people like Parkinson and Malfoy had a way of burrowing under her skin, lingering there for quiet moments like these when no one was awake to comfort her. Maybe she’d held onto their abuse because she knew they were right. She didn’t belong.

_You will fail your friends, your parents, and the world that does not want you... You will disappoint all... You are nothing but Muggle filth... Mudblood!_

"Hermione?" She hadn't realized her sobs had become audible until Ron's sleep-raspy voice pierced through the locket's whispering.

Her eyes opened, the hand on the locket flying to her throat in surprise. Ron kneeled next to her bunk, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and frowning.

"I'm sorry!" she said, trying to keep her voice low—and failing. Her high emotion made her breath hitch, her words coming out startlingly loud in the quiet tent. The Horcrux was right. She was a burden, an inconvenience, and she was destined for failure.

"It's all right," Ron said with a sigh that Hermione felt like a physical blow. She was bothersome, too. "Are you okay?"

She was far from okay, but how could she admit that out loud? Afraid she'd break down into hysterical tears if she opened her mouth, she simply shook her head. The moonlight emanating through the canvas above them was just sufficient enough for him to catch the gesture.

"Did you have a nightmare?"

She nodded rather than explain her inability to sleep. He needn't know she was drowning in her insecurities, suffocating under them.

"I have them, too. Do you want me to stay with you until you fall back asleep?" His voice was low and had lost some of its gravel until it was warm against her ears.

Hermione could not see his blue eyes in the gloom, and an irrational panic made her reach for him to tug him into the bunk with her. She couldn't see him clearly, but she needed him desperately, the friend who could make her laugh even when it was inappropriate, the boy—no, the man—with the rational heart, who took Harry's ideas and Hermione's logic and turned them into plans. She needed him because she loved him and this mission made her feel so alone, not only because they were outlaws, not only because they avoided people and she missed her family. Ron was the heart of the trio. No matter how often or how furiously they fought, he always made her feel wanted and needed afterward.

The Horcrux told her she was useless and intolerable. She needed Ron to tell her otherwise.

He resisted her pull, hesitating, and the word "Please" fell out of Hermione's mouth, an anxious and desperate word, before she could stop it.

Then Ron lifted the blanket and climbed under it until they were side by side. Though the bunk was narrow, a gulf-wide space separated them. She breached the gap to burrow her fingers in his shirt, summoning him even closer. He released a long breath through his nose and closed the gulf, carefully scooting closer until he was near enough for Hermione to bury herself in his arms.

The contact startled them both. Since they’d gone on the run, they had comforted each other as best as they could without exposing their vulnerabilities. They held hands as they slept; their eyes met over a flickering campfire; they looked out for one another. So far, their gestures could not have been definitively construed as anything other than platonic concern, except that they all knew Ron and Hermione did not treat Harry the same way. Even Harry had noticed, though Hermione had tried to ignore his embarrassed glances over the last few weeks.

This was different, though. This was Hermione actively seeking comfort from Ron in his body. This was allowing him to wrap his arms around her while she, too, wrapped her arms around him, clutching him close as if he was something dear. He was. He was more than dear to her. As often as they argued, she didn’t know what she would have done without Ron on this insane mission.

Ron finally released the tension in his shoulders, holding her to him gently. They didn’t speak because they didn’t have to. They knew how the other felt. They’d known for years, and they’d never had the courage to utter it into reality before. Why should now be any different? This was enough.

He tucked his chin on top of Hermione’s head, and they just held each other, sharing warmth and heartbeats and worries. The locket now lay on the bed between their bodies, the chain digging into the skin of Hermione’s neck. She breathed through her awareness of it, trying—perhaps like Harry practicing Occlumency—to clear her mind of the burden of its secrets.

After several minutes, Ron began to fidget, his feet shifting against hers, his legs sawing, until he began to roll away. Hermione held him tightly, refusing to let him slip away from her, and then she noticed what was bothering him when she felt something solid and hard pressing into her belly.

Both of them froze as Hermione became aware of this new development, and she didn’t need any light to know that Ron’s face and ears were flaming in mortification. Heat began to rise in Hermione’s face, too, spreading quickly to the rest of her body and pooling between her legs as she grasped the implication of what was happening.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said, still trying to strain his hips away from her, his words practically a groan.

“Don’t be,” she replied, so soft it was nearly a whisper.

Her fingers unclenched, releasing his shirt, and flattened against his back, tentatively skating over his ribs, above his clothes, down to his pajama pants.

“Hermione?” His voice came out questioning and alarmed. “You don’t—”

The words became strangled in his throat as her hand found the heavy weight of him between his legs. She rubbed him through the material of his pants, and his whole body shuddered, sending a wave of delighted surprise through Hermione. She had never done this before with anyone. Viktor had wanted to, but she hadn’t been ready, and even though he had been older than her, an adult in the eyes of wizarding law, he had been decent enough to respect her wishes.

She was glad she’d waited as Ron trembled under her hand. She traced the length of him with her palm, cupped his bollocks, her breath coming out in short puffs, same as his. The air between them heated even more, the blankets suddenly stifling, but Hermione was all too aware of Harry in the next bunk, so she continued her exploration under the covers.

When her hand began to slide under the waistband of his pants, he snatched her wrist, stopping her.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“You don’t want me to?”

Though it was difficult to see his face in the darkness, she could just make out the glitter of his eyes—and the absence of the glitter as he closed his eyes and groaned. His forehead met hers, and the muscles in his abdomen twitched under her fingers. She tickled him, and his groan became a fully fledged moan.

“We shouldn’t,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“ _Fuck._ No. No, I don’t.”

So she didn’t. He let her wrist slip out of his grasp. Let her hand leave a hot trail on his skin underneath his clothes. Let her grasp his heated length and inspect texture and size without sight. Hermione found it curious how he simultaneously tensed further and became pliant. He shifted onto his back, opening his body up to her, but he sought purchase in the bed sheets, anchoring himself to keep from floating away.

The heat and dampness between Hermione’s thighs intensified, but her curiosity got the best of her, and she was able to shelf her need for the time being. She wished she could see what she was touching. She wanted to know exactly what Ron looked like.

Her fingers circled him, testing his girth, and his pelvis punched upwards, creating friction against her palm. She began to stroke him, then, slowly at first but increasing speed every time he thrust into her hand or his breath caught.

His whimpers were the best sound she’d ever heard, and she endeavored to orchestrate a symphony of them.

Before she knew what was happening, he was spilling onto her hand, his haggard breaths punctuating each erratic jerk of his hips, grunts of relief filling the tent.

Hermione froze, uncertainty stilling her hand and anticipation stilling her body. She half-expected Harry to roll over and wake up, but he didn’t move.

After a few moments, Ron’s breathing evened out, and he became languid, though his muscles twitched every now and then. He pulled Hermione’s hand out of his pants and retrieved her wand from underneath her pillow, using it to Vanish the sticky result of his pleasure. Then he kissed her knuckles, his lips lingering against her skin.

Hermione’s heart raced and melted, but now that Ron had been satisfied, she was becoming aware of her own delayed gratification. She pressed her thighs together and gasped at the sensitivity between her legs. She was no stranger to the art of pleasuring herself, but Hermione had never been this aroused before. There was something about sharing this experience with Ron, about unraveling him under the ministrations of her hand, of him knowing he could affect her equally, that awakened a new kind of hunger in her, one that was hot and insistent and pulsing in her veins.

Ron heard her gasp, and his head shot up, his glittering eyes seeking hers in the shadows.

He didn’t ask because he didn’t have to. His palm felt hotter on her knickers than it had when he’d taken her hand, and Hermione’s legs fell open, allowing him to glide his hand downward to cup her. Through her knickers, he fingered her, gently grazing the material, which sent a thrill through her as if the cotton was part of her own body. With a sharp intake of breath, Hermione wondered, How could it feel this good when he wasn’t even touching her skin yet?

Her legs spread wider, and Ron took advantage of the increased access to slip under her knickers, his fingers delving into her drenched depths to continue his tender caress. Hermione shuddered and threw one arm over her eyes, allowing herself to _feel_ instead of think, allowing herself to get swept away in something completely selfish and salacious and overwhelming. Ron stroked her as he would a beloved broomstick, and the thought crossed her mind that he had done this before (maybe with Lavender?), but she brushed it away.

It was easy to brush the doubts away when his fingers filled her, plucked her, expertly (in her limited experience at least) drawing out her pleasure and multiplying it, sensation after sensation shooting through her, forcing sobs out of her throat as she climbed higher, higher, higher— 

And then came down, down, down in an explosion of bliss, every nerve in her body lighting up and extinguishing and lighting again, like fireworks on Bonfire Night, until they fizzled out one by one, leaving her limp and exhausted in the aftermath.

While she was still catching her breath, Ron’s voice came quietly through the haze of her contentment.

“Was that okay?”

A startled laugh escaped her, and she pulled him into her side once more, tucking herself against him until their arms had returned to their original positions wrapped around each other.

“That was more than okay.”

Their skin was damp with perspiration, and the cloying scent of sex surrounded them.

Hermione knew the morning would bring shame, because Ron had been right. They shouldn’t be doing this, not with the fate of the world in their hands. How could they keep it a secret from Harry? They didn’t need the distraction, and yet—they did.

Because as Hermione closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, the Horcrux’s secret whispers could not reach her, and her mind was blissfully empty of doubts. For now.

**End**


End file.
